


To Lie Under

by G4COD



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Corruption, Demonic Nick, Gen, Pure Soul Judy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-01-09 09:49:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12273936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/G4COD/pseuds/G4COD
Summary: Demons, Angels and Spirits get along in, more or less, harmony. Nicholas Wilde knows this because he didn't sleep through every history class, just most of them and the teachers. However, what he doesn't know is much more important than some conflict between those three.What does a demon fox who's whole purpose is to fuck and corrupt do when he's bond to the one rabbit in existence without a sex drive or a bad bone in her rather cute body?A attempt at putting some seriousness and comedy in an unusual manner. This was something I had been sitting on for far too long, and I may not continue it too much further. Maybe I will, maybe I won't.





	1. Dead of Night

The apartment was small, silent and dim. He didn't mind any of these things, his focus locked on something much more important. The only room was a old janitor’s broom closet, the janitor long dead and the closet converted into a shoddy studio apartment. It baffled, shocked him even, that this was the, incredibly, humble abode of one very important little bunny.

Silence, a blessed thing, except for his soft breathing, her gentle snoring and her next-door neighbors’ chainsaw impersonations. She should've swapped the bed and the desk’s position, he figured from his seat on the desk. At the very least, every little bit of distance would help with her sensitive hearing.

Dim, but not a hindrance to him as the diffused streetlights alighted her soft fur as well as a candle to his powerful eyes. The red LED of her alarm clock, something she'd only really used for music and time telling and rarely for the alarm part, added a gentle shift in the room's tone. A much more vicious atmosphere, he fancied.

She was rather… pretty, and not just in the sense of cuteness like most of her kind. He knew her fur was as soft as ash, yet beneath that was a mammal carved from marble. A comparison to Pigmalion? He must've been getting soft. Unacceptable. Distracting thoughts had no place in his mind. He had a job, a purpose, and he couldn't fail. Failure was unthinkable.

Silently, the predator gracefully slipped from the desk he was seated on and onto his pads. Only since the start of the past week has he had stalked her, noting everything he could about her, hungered for her. He could name every one of her far too many siblings, possibly as fast as she could. He could predict her every move with fatal accuracy and deadly precision. He had shadowed her though her day, stood vigil over her in the night, and never tired of his hunt.

But, the moment had arrived. The hunt had reached a climax, not _the_  climax, but an important one all the same. He knew everything about her. Except, to his surprise, what form she would find the most pleasing. A simple question, with a harsh answer.

This rabbit was just not interested in sex!

It was another thing he quickly learned about her which set her apart from not only her species but all of mammalkind in general. He had intercepted her several times, on and off the clock and in various settings, gauging her every subconscious move. She didn't flirt or take to flirting. She wasn't interested in anything but her job and making the world a better place. What a _fascinating_  enigma!

He cursed his base species for his love of riddles, mind games and questions with no apparent or easy answer. Perhaps that was why he took so long to reach this point? Perhaps, perhaps not. It mattered little in the end.

The scary fox would have his cute bunny and that would be the end of that. The end of his stalk, of watching her interact so well with the younglings of Zootopia. The end of his hunt was fast approaching, the thrilling finale, the coup de grâce, the highest peak of the highest climax of the most unusual and difficult chase he had ever had in all of his thirty-two years!

Soon, he would be full again, hunger pains forgotten till they rear their savage head once more and howl in sympathy with his instincts. It was in his nature, his birthright, to hunt. And soon, the hunt would end…

He stopped, staring down at her with fiery eyes, green mana-flame to be precise and ironic. He stood over her and felt eager as well as saddened by how close he was to finishing it. _Oh well, what's that mortal saying?_

_Nothing good lasts forever._

With that, he kneeled and brought his muzzle within a scant hair's breadth from her’s. He breathed her expelled air in, savouring her purity. Kindness, optimism, love, her pure soul in every breath. It was intoxicating! And with his exhale, he repaid her with corruption. Cruelty, pessimism, hate, his soul came out like a corrupted will-O-wisp, shifting and flowing as a viable black miasma into her and carrying his immoral soul.

Thus, the world ceased to be limited to the janitor's closet, and the demon welcomed himself into her dreamscape.

…  
…  
...

Dreams are curious things, which would explain why he enjoys them so much. Of the five rivers of the afterlife, Lethe, the river of forgetfulness, flows through the cave of Hypnos, god of sleep. It wasn't often, but occasionally he and his fellows would gather water from the river and greet the god with offerings and prayers when he awoke. Even rarer, Hypnos would take the time away from his precious sleep schedule and instruct his impromptu class on the powers that came with dreamwalking as well as what to do and what not to do in another’s dreamscape.

The last part wasn't an ethics class, but a safety class.

Every dreamscape is different, that is rule number one. Every dreamer is different, that is rule number two. Every dream is different, that is rule number three. Once a mammal slips their bonds with the waking world, they conjure their own little world and for that one night and one mammal, their dreams will take place in that world.

Dreams, with an s to tell that I mean the plural form of dream. Everyone has around three to a half-dozen dreams each time they fall asleep, depending on their specific sleep schedule. Few can remember too much of their last dream minutes after waking up, and almost no one can remember the dreams that took place prior to that excluding those Lethos smiled on or shamans and their ilk. Each and every dream of each and every mammal for each and every night will take place and be stored in a one-time dreamscape. It's best to think of it like a large cinema; each movie in each theatre plays at a different time and place and yet all of them take place inside of the cinema.

Those like him were the exception; it wasn't like Lethos is going to want even a glimpse into his dreams. He was pretty sure the god of sleep, rest and dreams got enough accidental wet dreams without entering what amounted to a guaranteed five star pornography studio.

But such was the life of a demon bred to corrupt the pure and punish the deserving in the name of Lilith and Lucifer, and Nicholas Wilde knew nor wanted any other life.

But for now, let's continue the incubus’ hunt.


	2. The Witching Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's another 2k of worthless drabble; enjoy ya freaks!

 

The witching hour had come and nearly gone, bringing with it the lowlifes who infest every city of sinful nature. Sahara Square, while not a city itself, could count as the most wicked part of Zootopia with the Nocturnal District trailing a slight bit behind. Mammals drinking and betting their life savings and children’s college funds away. Strippers and whores ran their own little businesses; some found in a large phonebook, the rest in a little black book. Shotgun weddings, while lacking in any type of firearms or even compressed-air weapons, made up for this with rapid fired ceremonies and slurred, drunkenly given ‘I do’s. 

Small time gangs sold drugs, the larger crime families; triad, mafia or cartel; sold hope. Hope placed more money on flimsy little paper cards than politics, disasters and war place on ‘the common voter’s priorities’ and hope was in abundance for the casino goers, while mathematical equations and technology was held by the house. Hope, a true virtue, drives more mammals to sin than sociopathic minds or temporary bouts of psychosis could ever match with mass shooters, terrorists and just plain evil mammals. 

The district of Sahara Square was where most virtues fled from, while chained to a pillar in a dark basement was hope, and the district pulled tens of billions of dollars from the foolishly hopeful each year effortlessly. It is a disgusting thing to know, but all the more evil when you can actually see and feel the effects on not only the mammals themselves, but their souls as well. 

Unless, of course, you were born and raised to love it. 

It is among these glittering lights and lost souls not yet departed that we catch a glimpse of our favorite fox, looking deeply disturbed and distracted as he moved against the current in a eye catching green Pawaiian shirt meant for tacky vacations paired with crisp, ironed khakis. It wasn't like him to forgo vanity; a major staple of incubi and succubi lifestyle, a minor one for foxes in general and an intermediate placing staple for red foxes in particular; but he was troubled, worried and, dare he admit it, scared shitless.

His paw nervously adjusted his tye; a tye, a surer sign of how out of sorts he was could hardly be found; and while he chided himself for the mistake, ultimately decided against fixing it. It had a certain… lack of any style whatsoever which he kinda liked at the moment. Shaking his head, he checked a crosswalk sign, found the street sign half covered by an elephant cow’s blouse, the semi-undressed cow in question puking and coughing in a nearby gutter as payment for the bright idea of sucking up and spraying high proof vodka over her friends with her freaking trunk; Darwin would be sad, lady; and he hurried to his destination once the traffic started slowing. 

This was no time to be patient or enjoy the sights, which included the idiotic elephant being comforted by an equally drunk and rather soaked longhorn bull while a pair of large ZPD officers were fast approaching. Patience was a virtue, but as a demon he never relied on such things, the fox in form needed something desperately and immediately; three somethings to be particular, and he knew just where to go for all three. 

Away from the strip he hurried, for although it was a veritable feast for our fox, his destination laid in the seedier part of town, if such a term could be used in this context. Away, he all but ran, from the high prices of hope and into the slums. 

And fro we go, to the moment his life took a drastic turn. 

\---  
\---  
\---  
Invading a mammals dreamscape is one thing, doing so without being noticed is another. Dreams are such a vital part of sapient life, so very, very vital, that a poor and untrained entry into another’s dream could cause physical pain or even death. The best case scenario of a poor entry would be akin to a thief breaking a window to enter a mansion with all the new, fancy anti-theft devices; loud alarms bringing attention to the intruder, mental cameras capturing the fingerprint of the thief's spiritual presence so as to prevent future attacks, silent alarms subconsciously summoning defenses and locking the doors while the dreamer made the equivalent of a panicked nine-one-one call for help. 

Yes, a sloppy entrance could spell ruin for our foul friend Nick, but rest as assured as his prey; he has been doing this since he was twelve. 

In our dreams, we are simultaneously at our strongest and weakest. We could stand at the pass of Thermopylae, alongside the mighty warriors of Sparta under the command of King Leonidas and hold the Persians at bay from our home. We could flee the lengthening shadows and their concealed threats nigh endlessly, feeling their breath upon our neck, their claws upon our flesh, their fangs at our throat. A nature of duality lies within dreams and the wardens. 

The Night Mares, two words and not one, bring dark retribution upon the wicked who must dream as much as any pure soul; while they must also bring their curses to those who, many would argue, might not deserve them. Calm thyself, for although it may seem wrong to punish some who are truly unworthy of punishment, it is their job and they find no more pleasure in it than a zit-faced teenager at McDonald's.

By the way, I'd like to add something: Fuck you, Alex, take my gods be damned order! …ahem, sorry for that, folks; my bad. 

On the other side of the coin are the Sand Males, again as two words and not one, bringers of peaceful rest and sweet dreams to the sleeping mammals of the world. Children, kind souls and the like are their usual and preferred clientele, while there are times they must bring their gifts to those who, it might seem, don't deserve them. They find no more pleasure in this aspect of their job than the Night Mares. 

But even a true monster deserves a nice dream once in awhile.

Masters of their craft, the both of them, they serve Hypnos well. Nick had met plenty in his travels, both on and off of the clock, and they've rarely leave him without worry. He was considered quite skilled at dreamwalking; they were masters beneath only the god himself. It is with no small amount of paranoia that, upon entering the dreamscape, he focused his senses while blending to match the semi-spiritual realm. 

He could run, hide and plead, but in a dreamscape, nothing is hidden or forbidden to the mammal’s subconscious. Nothing. A pure soul could house a demented aberration fiercer the the fires of Hell, the better to protect itself, of course. The best you can do, in another's dream, is blend in and fool it into believing you were merely a part of the background.

For an incubus, it is second nature to step into a dream and influence the background to his advantage. For Nick, it was cub’s play. 

Without fanfare or any obvious action, he appeared. One moment was a scenic view of the countryside, the next the hills had eyes. Slowly stepping forward from the earth and grass, he appeared as an otherwise unremarkable rabbit; a natural construct to the senses of the dreamer’s warden. With a bucktooth grew, he took a step forward and immediately tripped over his big feet. 

Grumbling mildly, he picked himself up and dusted off. Considering rabbits, and hares for that matter, have such large feet for such tiny creatures and that he, as a fox, was used to having larger feet, the problem was simply his legs had also shrunk and rebuilt in a manner that seemed disproportionate to him and his muscle memory. 

It is not easy to adjust to a new body, let alone one so cute.

With a near literal spring in his step, he bounded forward towards the center of the dreamscape. All around him was the mental representation of a landscape artist’s work of art, a piece de la resistance in many eyes, alien in his own. Gentle, rolling hills. Red barn and tractor. One big ass hill with an extraordinary number of windows, wrap around porch and a mountain complex. 

“I fucking swear I'm making a mountain of a bunny burrow,” he chuckled. 

Dreams are fluid while the dreamscape is a more malleable solid; structured, yes, but just chaotic enough for exaggerations of certain aspects. The bigger something is in a dreamscape, the sharper the memories of it. The greater the importance of it. The more one has felt in or due to said structure. With a shrug, he turned east and was blinded by the harsh light of Zootopia. 

Yes, the horizon is eighty miles away while the distance from Bunny Burrow is two hundred plus, but try and keep up; this is the dreamscape, realism is not a cornerstone of any dreamscape, only the emotions that fill it and the memories within it truly matter. 

Well, those of the dreamer and/or dreamwalker/trespasser. 

“Swear an oath, this bunny is...” he mumbled and trailed off, not even he sure of what he was saying. Shaking his lapin head and blinking his eyes to clear them, he turned away from the bastion of hope she held the city to be and found himself looking at rows upon rows of vegetables, hundreds of thousands of carrots to be exact. He was struck by the sight, cliche as could be, of her dreams’ organization. 

“Speciest to say, but I really should've expected this.”

Each row represented a dream’s meaning, with each carrot representing a continuation of said dream’s meaning; with deeper senses than he possessed, Nick could've told us that the longest row was of Judy’s inner desire to help others, while the shorter ones held fears, nightmares and other curses that were bestowed upon her for whatever reason. Thankfully, I, not Nick, am telling this tale and can inform you of such things. Things like how Judy, for some reason, had a recurring nightmare about an apartment fire that she ignored in favour of ticketing someone who was gonna burn to death, this freeing them from paying a twenty dollar fine. Why did she have these pointless nightmares, you ask? Filling quotas, mostly. 

Even the underworld must succumb to the dreaded, necessary tasks of bureaucracy, minimal requirements and paperwork. 

Walking down the column, he read the signs posted. Arrest a mugger while off of the clock. Stop a bank robbery without any deaths. Beating the ticketing record. 

“What, by the fires, is wrong with this bunny?” he wondered aloud at the last one. Snorting and biting back a laugh, be continued down the line; searching for a sign which would stand out by saying-

“Seriously, she's dreaming of playing basketball against some mice?!”

Inhabited was the word on a plank under the actual sign which was titled ‘B-ball championship, bunnies versus pikas’ and was placed before a mere five carrots. Dreams don't always have a deeper meaning, you know, and this one was just another insane ramble. Honestly, it was nowhere near the most crazy dream Nick had encountered. That title went to ‘ballet dancing Animalian buffalo wearing tutus’ and belonged to a familiar water buffalo's nephew.

Real freak, that Alphonso ‘The Cow’ Bogo; he was almost not worth the effort. 

“I don't even want to know anymore; mortals are fucking weird,” said the dreamwalking fox demon who disguised himself as a plain and unremarkable rabbit and was trying to feast upon the pure soul of our favorite bunny cop by fucking her to death in a quite literal fashion. 

For now, however, let us take a break; I keep destroying my soul to write this, the least you could do is not demand the whole tale at once. Please?


	3. Just Pick One

She had no recollection of how she got here. It was dark, a vast emptiness in which she could only see her own body, a conundrum because she could find no source of light. Happiness, eager anticipation as well, for although she had never been here before she knew that something must happen. Something good, too. There was no fear in her, how could there be when there was nothing in the void but herself. 

A whisper, softer than the coo of a dove, told her to relax. She had no questions and obeyed, further embracing the calm by closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. The air smelled divine. Like the fields around her family’s farm in the wildflower season, her mom after baking a commercial sized batch of homestyle chocolate chip cookies and grandpa’s pipe he smoked when he told war stories of his days in the Small Animal Service and so much more. It was filled with the scent of familiarity, of love and happiness, letting her know with every breath that everything was a-cauliflower-mazing! 

Softly, she felt the smallest brush of some mammal turning her and she giggled. Whoever it was felt weird, and his breath tickled her ears. “Don't open your eyes, you don't want to spoil the surprise.”

No, she didn't. But she also wanted to know who was…

“Only a few more, okay, honey bunny? Be patient, please?”

He had the nicest voice and such a caring paw wrapped around her neck. She squirmed, enjoying his intoxicating touch.

“Let me work on this first, then we'll have all the time in the world, promise.”

She desperately wanted to see what such a great mammal was doing for her, but he asked her to keep her eyes closed. She didn't want to spoil such a friendly gesture. She did like surprises… most of the time… 

“Hey, hey,” he soothed gently. “It's okay, everything is going to be perfect, you'll see!”

See… see… she didn't want to see! She struggled to escape his tightening grip, eyes clenched shut and leaking. She didn't want to see their faces anymore.

“Whoa boy!”

Faces twisted in anger at her for being too small to help.

“What the?!”

Faces asking, begging, pleading, screaming for her to help! 

“Sonnova! Judy, sweetie, calm down!”

Faces, their flesh falling from the b-

“Enough!”

…  
,,,  
…

“Let's,” Nick panted, “let's try that again.”

She had no recollection of how she got here. It was dark, a vast emptiness in which she could only see her own body, a conundrum because she could find no source of light. Happiness, eager anticipation as well, for although she had never been here before she knew that something must happen. Something good, too. There was no fear in her, how could there be when there was nothing in the void but herself. 

A whisper, softer than the coo of a dove, told her to relax. She had no questions and obeyed, further embracing the calm by closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. The air smelled divine. Like the fields around her family’s farm in the wildflower season, her mom after baking a commercial sized batch of homestyle chocolate chip cookies and grandpa’s pipe he smoked when he told war stories of his days in the Small Animal Service and so much more. It was filled with the scent of familiarity, of love and happiness, letting her know with every breath that everything was a-cauliflower-mazing! 

Nick stayed back, his form flickering with irritation and unease in the shadows behind her. Of all of the things he was expecting tonight, he was not expecting… that! He knew Judith Laverne Hopps very, very well… yet he couldn't place what he saw. Nightmare material of that quality only has two sources; (three if you count slasher films, which she hated) really, really, really piss off a Night Mare or something extremely traumatizing happened that was so bad the mind locked it up deep in her subconscious and left it to fester unawares for years until it can break free. Judging from the fact she was a mortal, unaffiliated with any shamans and an all around nice mammal, Nick placed his bet on the second one. 

He's a fucking demon and the shit he saw gave him chills! 

Regardless, he still had a job to do. With a much more cautious choice of words, he got her eyes closed and kept her humming happily. Nick placed the tune as Sugar Sugar by The Archies and smiled at her innocence while he went to work creating a mass of tens of thousand of rabbits and hares of both sexes; he has been surprised a few times, and it pays quite well to cover all of your bases, after all. 

They were also naked to a one; hey, a lady has a right to pick her poison, after all. 

He stepped behind her and resumed his mostly non visible appearance. A soft tone and suave words work wonders on a mammal so sensitive to sound; it was how many rabbits, hares and even elephants picked their mates, by their voice over their looks, personality or prosperity.

Giving most of them a gentle, loving and bucktoothed smile, some rabbits and hares preferring shorter incisors, he declared his field of fuckables ready for harvest. 

“Now, open your eyes,” he whispered, slowing his words and drawing each syllable out, “and just pick one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and simple; with some unforeseen shit! 
> 
> I am not a writer, fan fiction has been something I have enjoyed for a few years now and for various things. First and foremost, I am a furry. I fell in love with Greg Howell's work before anything else. After that, MLP. Yeah, I'm a brony. Finally, Zootopia. I am not a fan of the WildeHopps centric fangasming over the two falling in love but being bitches about it; angst is nice in small doses, but not in the quantity that most of you guys want. 
> 
> That's why Nick isn't gonna be a bitchy, pity me character in this or any other of my stories. I love Zootopia, the world where humans never happened. I don't love how so many of you guys can't see the forest for the trees; yes, many of you have, quite truly, awesome OCs, but what about the other aspect of my previous sentence. 
> 
> How many of you asked yourselves what happened to dire wolves, sabertooth cats and American lions without humanity there to wipe them out? Me, I want some ten foot tall, four hundred pound ass kicking predators! Where's the questions like that? Culture wise; what would a culture for a predator or prey mammal be in a world like Zootopia has? 
> 
> Greg Howell's story The Human Memoirs gives us a human's perspective on a predator society. Sathe (I think) are anthropomorphic cats with no tails and digitigrade feet. They consider live rabbits, nailed to a plank, a delicacy. The whole rabbit. I have imagined a story premise based almost entirely on that one scene. I want to do it about slavery and shit, base the foxes on the Sathe with rabbits being treated like livestock, slave labor and auxiliary for the military forces. 
> 
> I want adventure first and foremost, with questions and different cultures secondary and love and tragedies third. I've seen one great story in this fandom that delivered perfectly. So... Yeah... 
> 
> Enough of this soft wimpy shit!


End file.
